"'My land!' she exclaimed, with a look of horror. 'That book would corrupt the morals of John Bunyan.' "'Never mind; John never lived in Pointview,' I argued. 'He didn't have a chance to get hardened.' "Betsey had a determined look in her face, and rang for the coachman. "'I'll have them stored in the stable,' said she, firmly. "'If you don't keep it locked, all the women in the neighborhood'll be in there,' I warned her, knowing that she couldn't help telling her friends of what had happened. "'That's no reason why the men should be unduly exposed,' said Betsey. 'Poor things! It's my duty to protect _you_ as long as I can, Socrates.' "I promised to get rid of the books somehow, and persuaded her to let them stay where they were until I had had time to think about it. Then she said: "'Socrates, forgive me. I didn't mean it, and I wanted to be so nice to you. I guess it's a just punishment for my extravagance. I thought the modern novels were bad enough. What can I do for you now?' "'Always, when you're in doubt, do nothing,' I suggested. "'Oh, I know what I'll do!' she exclaimed, joyfully. 'I'll knit you a pair of socks with my own hands.' "'Eureka!' I shouted. 'Those socks shall make footprints on the sands of time.'" VII IN WHICH SOCRATES ATTACKS THE WORST DOERS AND BEST SELLERS "One evening, soon after that, Betsey and I went to a party at Deacon Benson's. The Deacon is Marie's grandfather--a strict, old-line Congregationalist. The old gentleman owned some two hundred acres in the very heart of Pointview and about a mile of shore-front. In all the buying and selling, he had refused to part with an acre of his land, now worth at least a million dollars. He had willed it all to Marie. "Deacon Joe was a relic of Puritan days, with shrewd eyes under heavy gray tufts, and a mouth bent like a sickle, and whiskers under a strong chin, and lines in his face that suggested the heart of a lion. In his walks he was always accompanied by a hickory cane and a bulldog whose countenance and philosophy were like unto those of the Deacon. "He was a perfectly honest man who had joined the church with mental reservations. He had reserved the right to employ certain adjectives and nouns which had been useful in Pointview since the days of the pioneer, and which had grown more and more indispensable to the opinions of an honest man. The verb 'to damn' in all its parts and relations had been one of them. The word 'hell' was another. It represented a thing of great conversational value, and he recommended it with perfect frankness to certain people. He loved hell and hard cider, and hated Episcopalians. He loved to tell how one Episcopalian had cheated him in a horse trade, and how another had never paid for a bushel of onions. That was enough for him. He had always thought them a loose, unprincipled lot with no adequate respect for fire and brimstone. But Deacon Joe was honest, and his word was worth a hundred cents on the dollar.